[i]It tastes like Karachi,[/i] Miraj thinks, his eyes still closed, but his mouth open as he breaths in the briny air. He smells the rot of fish stuck of the beach, unable to shimmy their way back into the ocean before the tide went out. He wonders if it smells like fish, the animals on the beach will look like fish? Or do all dying things, no matter how many light years away, all smell the same? He thinks about genetically modified animals. No matter what hide they have, once stripped of their skin, their meat is still red and bloody with yellow-white pockets of fat. 

Hamir’s smile is the first thing he sees when he looks up from his seat in the drop ship. And despite Miraj’s toes being sticky from his companion’s throw-up, he smiles back and begins to laugh. Uday chortles along maybe for the same reason or maybe a different reasons. Miraj isn’t quiet sure if he’s laughing for any other reason but [i]to[/i] laugh. The herders tease each other for a few moments as the rest of the occupants file out into the bright day, encouraged by sunlight and fresh air. Only when they’re the last ones, do they hoist on their packs and leave, the oldest going out first. Uday complains about the humidity, saying his joints can’t handle the stifling pressure. Hamir and he begin to bicker about respecting elders. 

Miraj listens to what English he can pick up, his eyes shaded by the brim of his ghutra. Some talk about splitting into groups, others kick at ground. The dark sand is fertile enough for a field of purple and yellow flowers to bloom in. He revels in the soft, warm feeling as grains of sand trickle between his toes. He will need shoes when bushwhacking, but for now, to be barefoot was like taking off his sandals and walking into the cool clay of his home in Pakistan. 

Besides him, a husband and wife stand to the side holding hands and staring into the crowd. They make no attempt to join. Miraj frowns and looks towards the rest of the crowd. Clusters of people have begun to form, collections of two or three, with their backs to each other. Only a group of twelve or so were in the drop ship and yet divisions were already being created. He steps away from Uday and Hamir. The older man calls after him, but he walks towards the woman with the mechanical arm, purposely shouldering his way through individual discussions. They need one goal not several.

“Which way is water?” he asks as he approaches. “If we have landed so close, animals would go hiding for a few moments.” He pauses, trying to remember the correct term, “Those who stalk—prey on other animals—they will the first to come back.” Miraj’s eyes drop to her arm, his face a smear of brown and red reflecting back at him. “Tergus verber*,” he elaborates, his hands moving as he speaks, “Those types of animals.” If his wife knew how weak his English had become, she would laugh and ask how a man like him was able to woo a English Muslim such as herself at the university.

(*[url=http://www.wired.com/images_blogs/underwire/2010/03/predator_fe.jpg]Tergus Verber[/url])